


angel's trumpet

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hot, and he's been poisoned with Mycroft's lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	angel's trumpet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReekaJean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReekaJean/gifts).



There's a heavy wetness suspended in the swelling afternoon heat. Sherlock sweats even as he drips from his shower, drips uncaring onto Mycroft's rug, and Mycroft isn't here to care.

Mycroft's on the other side of the glass sliding doors, too far gone to care – glistening ripe lips (Sherlock longs to taste) parted and panting, little puffs of pleasure. The pool, glinting wicked, ripples with the steady rhythm of Mycroft's hand, the steady rhythm of his hips.

Sherlock watches him swallow with a navel-tug of tension. 

He drips onto Mycroft's rug and shudders under the drag of his own fingertips, watches a curious tempo build beneath the sparkling water. The air is thick and he can't breathe because Mycroft quivers.

Mycroft _groans_.

A siren song, it draws Sherlock out to the sea of overheated bricks and stone, where the sun hits him with relentless fervour and Mycroft's lusty eyes meet the tidal waves of his arousal.

The world spins, dizzy.

Mycroft cuts through water, glistening red-bitten mouth, glistening lily-coloured skin, beautiful and deadly like an angel's trumpet.

_Come here, love._

And Sherlock goes.

Hard press of concrete against his knees, soft press of lips against his thigh, and Mycroft moves slowly, licks slowly. Sherlock's skin aches with every spit slick suck; he's leaking salty into his brother's mouth, fingers twitching in his brother's hair, until suddenly Mycroft moves away and with decisive hands, manoeuvres Sherlock so he's lying back, half into the pool, half against the grainy bite of the ground.

The water laps at his legs, Mycroft laps between them. Sherlock's head falls back with a painful crack as he spreads his legs, primal instinct, so Mycroft can lift them over his shoulders. Mouth like liquid fire, he's kissing flames into Sherlock's veins, belly tight with longing and oh god, oh _god,_ he's going to die if Mycroft stops touching him there, kissing him there...

Mycroft's ducks, moist hands digging into bones so he's going to have bruises later and Sherlock jerks, thumps his heel against Mycroft's spine, a petulant protest.

_I want –_

Mycroft plunders into him.

Into him. Inside him, and Sherlock's an animal, writhing and mewling under the sun. The sudden breeze catches him dizzy and sweetly aching, a path of magma all the way to up his chest, his neck, and he moans, tasting sex in the summer breeze, heavy and wet and fragrant.

An animal – rubbing at his nipples, stroking, stroking, and the sun beats red against his shut lids.

Their fever capitulates; the slide of his skin against Mycroft's is too much, the warm, wet probe of Mycroft's tongue too much. Sherlock's own litany, ( _Mycroft, Mycroft – oh god, My),_ is too much. His toes skim the water as he rocks forward, and it's too much.

He fists himself, wild, and there's a musical splashing as Mycroft follows suit, so he raises himself to watch, still stroking and panting, and even the sight of Mycroft is too much.

Glittering droplets cling to his back like crystals in the morning, his neck between Sherlock's thighs and his tongue, his hot, clever tongue: Sherlock burns and twitches in his own hand.  He's there, he's there, he's almost there and he can't breathe.

Mycroft groans, a hot puff of air against Sherlock. All his muscles seize and shudder.

And it's too much. Sherlock is crying out, unashamed, toes curling into the water, sticky fluid hot on his fingers, on his belly, on his thigh. Mycroft licks like he's sweet and ripe: a summer fruit.

Water cocoons around them, Mycroft's arms cocoon around him and he rests against his brother's skin until Mycroft drowns him in a bottomless, salty kiss.

Beautiful and poisonous, like an angel's trumpet.


End file.
